Because Hope is a Dangerous Thing (It Will Set You Free)
by Maryam25
Summary: It's been four months since she last saw Oliver. Four long months. And that's when it happens. Based on the events of the mid-season finale. Now complete. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

No copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading.

**Because Hope is a Dangerous Thing (It Will Set You Free)**

_And the second thing?_

"I love you."

His lips remain in a straight line, but she sees the curve of a smile in his eyes – crinkling and bright.

He admits to it with pride – as if it were an unparalleled accomplishment.

He says it with such sincerity – a confession made in earnest – she thinks her oxygen intake may be compromised; has trouble evening out her breaths.

Says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it's a secret to which only she isn't privy.

The spot on her forehead burns; the earlier press of his lips on her skin has set her aflame.

And now he's leaving – won't even be here to watch her burn.

It's something he has to do – this is his burden to bear. She knows this. And somewhere deep down, she understands. Really, she does. But it doesn't make it hurt any less.

He's been dealt a hand.

(A very crappy one at that.)

The deck is stacked – all odds against him.

And now it's Oliver's move.

She watches him go, her eyes on the back of his head, his shoulders, his legs. Watches his retreating form until he blends into the distance, leaving her alone in the deafening silence.

She's sees all this, but she doesn't see any of it.

Their recent conversation is still buzzing about in her head. She can feel his breath ghost over her ear, that deep voice of his repeating those three words – that strategic grouping of eight letters – over and over.

She goes cold from head to toe – every single hair standing on end. And then – just as quickly – she's burning up, on the edge of melting into oblivion.

_Chair, she needs to find a chair._

Her legs threaten to give way, her heart convulses in her chest.

She's beginning to feel lightheaded when the nausea hits; when she thinks that her stomach is lodged somewhere in her throat, trying to claw its way out.

Felicity blindly feels her way to the nearest flat surface, sliding her warm hands across the stainless steel and the chrome – the coolness of the metal a balm against her flushed skin. She takes a seat and regulates her breathing.

Deep inhales and even deeper exhales.

(She feels her stomach inch its way back down.)

There's a heaviness behind her eyes and a sudden fatigue that overpowers her completely.

She fights to keep them open.

It's a losing battle.

Her head meets the top of her desk, the chill of the metallic surface doing nothing to quench her flaming forehead.

'I love you'

She hears it here.

'I love you'

It slips through a crack there.

And then the most terrifying of realizations dawns on her.

Something becomes blatantly clear.

She never said it back – never let him in on her most cherished secret, her dearest truth.

That his feelings are reciprocated – exponentially so.

That her thoughts start and end with him – _revolve_ around him.

That from the time he leaves the foundry for patrol every night, until the minute he makes his way back down its steps, she is beside herself with fear and worry – praying that the connection doesn't sever.

That she loves him – is _in love_ with him.

Unconditionally.

Undeniably.

Somewhere amidst these tumultuous thoughts and her emotional turmoil, everything fades to black.

That's how John finds her two hours later.

She's not sure which one of them looks worse.

**-/-**

It's been three weeks.

And not a single word.

She teeters on the verge of insanity.

Honestly though, she might already be there.

For all the things she's hearing and the things she thinks she sees.

She doesn't tell anyone.

Not John.

Not Roy.

Not even Lyla, when she gently prods.

She needs to be strong for team Arrow.

But her head isn't in the game. And there isn't room for error.

She's afraid that it will end up costing them – John, Roy, Starling.

_She_ doesn't have anything to lose.

Not any more.

**-/-**

Three weeks turns into eight and the effects are painfully obvious.

Roy is back to his closed-off self, all that progress lost to the wind. He makes minimal small talk and once again reverts to one word responses.

The new DJ at Verdant isn't helping the situation either.

Sometimes Felicity spends the night with him in the foundry.

They sit in silence mostly; rarely is there a verbal exchange.

Once in a while, Roy will put a hand on her shoulder and she will get lost in the depth of his eyes, the hurt and the pain that are present there. Because he's lost a friend too. A mentor. A brother.

She's happy that John has Lyla and baby Sara – loved ones to whom he can go home; a fiancé that loves him and a daughter who is the apple of her daddy's eye.

Where Digg used to be able to smile with just his eyes, he now only seems weary and incomplete.

**-/-**

At the end of week twelve, Digg and Lyla get married.

It was Felicity who finally let them have it:

"Life's too short to waste time and uselessly delay.

To not be with the one you love; to push them away.

(Case in point, she doesn't say).

It's what _he_ would have wanted for you two."

It all happens quickly.

The ceremony takes place at city hall.

There are five people in attendance, apart from the Justice of the Peace.

The bride and groom – a tasteful pair.

A young man with woeful eyes.

A melancholy blonde in a simple fuchsia-coloured dress.

And in her arms, a gurgling infant in a canary yellow dress.

They are surrounded by an emptiness, which like a dark cloud, looms over them, waiting to pour.

But, they do their best to smile and occasionally laugh because it's supposed to be a happy day.

(And it _is)_

Albeit bittersweet.

**-/-**

With much difficulty, Roy and Felicity convince the new couple to get away for the weekend – _sans_ baby and worries of evening patrols.

Digg envelopes Felicity in a tight hug and just holds her. When they part, he watches a tear escape from under her glasses and tries to reign in the one threatening to slip down his cheek.

Lyla brushes a few stray blonde strands from her face before pulling her into a warm embrace. And just as she's about to leave, she secures her bouquet in Felicity's hand, making sure to wrap the younger woman's fingers around it. There is a look in her eyes, one of hope and reassurance.

'Stranger things have happened...'

Lyla's words from an earlier conversation echo around her.

**-/-**

Barry visits her twice.

She appreciates the gesture (really, she does, and she adores him for it), but his jokes no longer seem too funny and his warm smile less comforting. He stays a day or two each time, bringing case files to keep her occupied.

And each time, he reminds her that he's only a _flash_ away.

Her lips turn up slightly as she nods her head.

_She knows._

**-/-**

It's been four months since she last saw Oliver. Four long months of loss and despair.

And that's when it happens:

A satellite somewhere picks up a signal.

Within seconds it alerts her phone.

And it's all that she needs.

To water that seedling of hope buried deep inside her, giving it occasion to sprout.

For the first time in months, Felicity Smoak _actually_ smiles – the corners of her lips turned up, just about reaching her eyes.

Hope, is a dangerous thing.

Fin.

_TBC…umm…possibly?_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note:

So I initially was just going to have this be a two-part piece. Boy, did things get away from me; my fingers couldn't keep up with my brain. This part is much longer than was originally planned. It's just something to bridge the gap between the first part and the third and _final _part of the story, which will be the reunion. Be gentle with me.

**Because Hope is a Dangerous Thing (It Will Set You Free)**

**Part 2**

Oliver walks out of the foundry on a Wednesday.

He walks away from the woman who is at the centre of his everything – with every intention of coming back.

Walks away, leaving her wrapped up in the blanket of his promises and his words.

_I love you_.

_I will beat him _– _this time._

He stumbles back in (to the foundry) on a Tuesday evening, seven months later.

Felicity comes to the realization that she just may be past the point of no return when she _thinks _she sees him, leaning against the banister.

She blinks – makes sure to hold her eyes closed for a good fifteen seconds.

When she opens them, he's still there.

As much as she thought she was okay with accepting her impending insanity, now that she's standing on the welcome mat at the foot of the door that says CRAZY, she reckons that she _really_ isn't.

Then he speaks.

Very carefully whispers her name…

**-/-**

*FOUR MONTHS EARLIER*

It turns out to be a false alarm. The signal, the satellites, all of it.

They don't amount to anything.

They're being picked up one minute and then go dead the next.

Never to surface again.

That little seedling – the one that decided to sprout little roots that ramified throughout her – she pushes it down, quashes the feeling altogether. For an instant, she becomes her worst possible self.

She almost bites John's head off, despite her having absolutely no reason to.

As a result, Roy walks on eggshells for days.

(So much for the progress in their relationship.)

Sadly, the release does make her feel slightly better.

In response, John – ever the gentleman; always the friend – simply crouches down beside her, arranging his long limbs and takes a seat on the cool ground. He puts his arm around her shoulders, bringing their heads together, the weight of his arm comforting, soothing even. It tethers her, points her true North.

Lately she's been a ship sailing aimlessly in tempestuous seas, lost and wrecked.

She doesn't know when she started crying. But she is.

Her tears and heavy breaths fog up her glasses, so she takes them off; tries to discreetly wipe at the treacherous stream that smears her cheeks.

She turns her head inwardly, and hides her face in John's shirt, which definitely won't come out unscathed.

"I...I thought it was going to work. I th-"

She stops and lets out an exasperated sigh, pushing away some of the unwanted weight.

"I thought I could bring him home, John."

Diggle's hold on her tightens in reassurance.

"I know."

Out of the corner of his left eye, drops a tear, streaking down his face, losing itself in his shirt.

"We don't even know...

I mean he would have found his way back if...he would have figured out _some _way to let us know if..."

She doesn't need to finish her sentence, just lets her words hang heavily between them.

(She doesn't want to finish it either. If she says the words out loud, it all becomes real; there's no disputing it then. And she can't face that kind of reality just yet.)

At that moment, an identical thought runs through both of their minds.

_What do they tell Thea?_

Somewhere else, Roy ponders the same thing.

**-/-**

Baby Sara stumbles into her first steps.

Uncle Oliver isn't there.

She says her first word.

(John insists that it's papa, but anyone with half decent hearing would beg to differ. It sounds more like Sara's saying she wants to go to the bathroom. Number _two_.

No one has the heart to tell him otherwise. Because it's these small moments that remain.

They're _all_ that remain).

Oliver still isn't there.

**-/-**

She tells Roy they're going out one night.

"No ifs, ands or buts."

He's walking around, moping like a sad puppy, all broody and somber. Thea's out of town for the next few days.

"Iunno, some girls' weekend, whatever that means."

He says it like it's the most nonsensical thing in the world.

Ray helps get her on the guest list for the city's hottest new club. It just so _happens_ that it's the grand opening.

(She _may _have let him in on Roy's predicament).

He says he's glad to be of assistance.

"I'm happy to hook a brother up."

He winks. And then flashes her his hundred-watt smile.

Felicity reciprocates the gesture. On the inside, where butterfly wings once flapped, she no longer feels anything. Her and Ray are as platonic as they come.

Good friends, nonetheless. All awkwardness lost to the past.

Before she leaves the office on Friday, he comes in with two garment bags.

She goes to protest.

He immediately makes a move to stop her and raises his index finger, "ah ah."

"First of all, they don't let just anyone in," he explains not unkindly.

"You'll see what I mean for yourselves."

Convinced that she seems to be temporarily pacified, he drops his hand.

"And second, there is a very specific dress code for tonight's opening. Sadly, no masks, but I'm sure you guys will have a good time."

Wondering what she's gotten them into, she thanks him and he gives her shoulder a slight squeeze.

"What good is any of this," he gestures to the walls of glass around them, "if I can't help out a friend?"

She doesn't miss the tone of despondence in his voice.

**-/-**

Roy comes down the steps at around 8:30. She's just beginning to do her make-up.

She pushes him into the bathroom, throws a towel at him and orders, "Shower, now. Please."

The poor guy doesn't put up a fight; knows his attempts won't be fruitful.

It definitely takes a lot more effort to persuade him into the Armani that is revealed from under the covers of garment bag number one.

(She's not past guilting him into it.)

It all comes together – what Ray had said earlier – when she unzips the second bag.

Roy's suit is black, but his shirt and tie are burgundy.

(Though he forgoes the tie altogether.

"You got me in the suit and shirt, the tie is where I draw the line. Besides, I thought it was against the rules to wear red on red."

"_Burgundy _Roy, bur-gun-dy."

All she gets from him is an eye roll.

She'll take what she can get. You can't have your cake and eat it too.)

Felicity's dress is the deepest shade of oxblood you can imagine and it's absolutely stunning.

In the end, they're ready to go and frankly, they "look good."

Roy's words.

You'll hear no objections from her though.

She snaps a quick photo and texts it to Diggle.

**-/-**

It seems that anyone who is anyone on Starling city's list of one-percenters is in attendance for Burgundy's opening night.

The bouncer doesn't spare them a second glance when Felicity gives him her name, just nods and jerks his thumb in the direction of the door.

"We're here to have a drink, relax. Be anyone but ourselves," she instructs.

She gives Roy a small smile, looking at him as she speaks. She wants to make sure that he is clear on the purpose of their outing – watches as some of the tension in his posture dissipates, and his jaw loosens.

She can't help but take him in. Nodding approvingly, she doles out, "Harper, you clean up good."

He throws an arm over her shoulder, "in that case Blondie, let's do this. And if this is on your friend's tab, I'm definitely not having just one drink."

They make their way through the dimly lit dance floor, pushing through the throngs of seemingly inebriated elite. Roy lets her lead the way; she pulls him along, his hand tightly held in hers.

**-/-**

In retrospect, their night out isn't a _complete_ failure. For the most part it goes relatively smoothly.

They indulge in some very expensive libations. (Neither of them is _drunk_ but they're drunk enough.) And they add their two cents here and there to random conversations about the "awesome" DJ and the incredible turnout.

They even take a turn at the whole dance thing. Roy surprises her with his move. Who would have thought?

It's only when they're about to leave – Roy makes a quick trip to the men's room before they head out – that she almost breaks someone's nose.

_Almost_ – she doesn't want to make a scene.

So instead, she tosses what's left of her drink in his face.

(In her defense, it would have been a waste throwing red wine on his _red _shirt. Go big or go home.)

She thinks that her politely declining – and very assertively so – his offer to dance would have gotten the message across clearly.

_Not interested_.

Clearly not. With him deciding to utterly and completely invade her personal space.

She doesn't explain the details of her altercation to Roy. Why ruin a nice evening?

She waits for him by the door.

**-/-**

There's a slight chill in the air, but they brave it out and walk back to the foundry. They promenade in silence mostly, with the odd bit of reminiscing about their evening and accompanying laughter.

However, when their destination comes into view, the lightness in the air slowly slips away, leaving it heavy and burdensome.

She calls John once they're inside, tells him to kiss Sara for her too.

He had insisted on "a call and NOT a text."

By the time she's done brushing her teeth and makes her way to the cot, Roy is fast asleep. So she lies down quietly, willing sleep to come.

That night, Felicity has a terrible nightmare. Terrible because it feels _so real_.

_To be continued…last part coming soon!_

_Thanks so much for reading._


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note:

So this was supposed to be finished _before_ Oliver made his return to Starling on the show. As you can see, it didn't. Life is funny that way. I also had trouble with figuring out how I wanted to end the story. I'm not sure what you'll make of it, but I just had to see it to its end – for posterity's sake, if for nothing else. I had some time and was inspired to write. Enjoy. And THANK YOU for reading and leaving your comments.

**Because Hope is a Dangerous Thing (It Will Set You Free)**

**Part 3 – Final Part**

_Oliver walks out of the foundry on a Wednesday._

_He stumbles back in on a Tuesday evening, seven months later._

**-/-**

It's been a tremendously dull day; the hours simply dragging on.

And on.

The fact that she spent last night tossing and turning, willing – pleading – sleep to come doesn't help the matter. She hasn't had such a restless night in months.

Not since…

She rushes out of the office – at a pace rivaled only by the road runner's – leaving a rising cloud of dust in her wake, mentally checking items off her 'after work' to-do list as she completes each one:

_Check in with Thea (ask if security system upgrade was successful – of course it was…duh)._

_Dinner OUTSIDE on the patio at Pascal's – Tuesday Special! (Need to incorporate more sunlight into waking hours)_

_Stroll through the park (Insufficient Vitamin D intake = improper bone calcification = Rickets, hello!)_

**-/-**

She descends the stairs into her 'after hours' office, letting out a long breath – one she's been holding all day, it seems. It's strange – cruel, twisted – that of all places, it's _here_ – within the confines of the foundry – where she feels most at peace, seeks solace at the end of a particularly trying day.

A tingle runs down the column of her spine, ending in a shudder at the tip. She can't seem to shake off the feeling she gets.

(The one that accompanied the tingle from this morning, when she stepped into her _other o_ffice.

The same one that kept her up last night.)

She goes through the motions of putting away her things and setting up for the evening's activities.

John won't be here for another half hour, which means Roy shouldn't be expected for at least another 45 minutes.

(Laurel's off for the night – not by choice. John threatened to change all the access codes if she didn't take a much needed, well-deserved respite.)

They've come a long way since _that_ fateful day when they were thrown the curviest of curve balls; since Laurel's first few – not entirely successful – attempts of stepping into the figurative heels of her late sister's alter ego. They work like a _better_-oiled machine now, having ironed out some of the wrinkles here and smoothed out the kinks there.

But that only means that they have to work harder and take on that much more; the weight on each of their shoulders sometimes more than any one of them can bear.

She constantly sees it with Roy; how he always steps up. It was almost as though he took Laurel under his wing; teaching her, looking out for her – looking after her. Though he leaves the suturing to Felicity and Digg – doesn't feel right leaving any marks on the assistant district attorney's once-unmarred skin.

What keeps them going is this city.

_Their_ city.

And the most important reason, the one that's never verbally acknowledged, but is always there on the tip of their tongues, at the forefront of their thoughts – that it's what Oliver would have wanted; it's what _he _would have done.

She doesn't mind the silence – frankly – enjoys the solitude that it offers. It creates a barrier that not even her mind can penetrate.

She looks over Diggle's black not-so-tight outfit – and hood – and brushes a hand over Roy's red Arsenal getup. She makes sure they're in working shape – haven't met with any mishaps since the last time she examined them – fit for the heroes that wear them.

She doesn't at all flinch when her eyes land on the green ensemble nestled in its case of glass, to the far right. She simply moves onto the next object in her line of sight – doesn't even need a moment to compose herself or catch her breath.

(Months will do that to a person.

Months of waiting and not knowing.

Months after which one finally decides that enough is enough.)

She calls it progress, more or less.

Now, the suit just stands there – in its protective casing – meant to be regarded nostalgically and beheld in awe; in remembrance of a man who gave everything he was – all he had – to his city. A man who was known by many; a man known by so very few.

That strange feeling is still there – looming over her – nagging at the back of her mind, as she settles in front of her technological shrine. She senses a coolness circulating within her veins and regrets leaving her cardigan in the car.

Interestingly enough, she finds herself suddenly wishing for company.

Solitude be damned.

**-/-**

She _feels_ something before she sees anything.

Feels a change in the air – hears a light swish, a quiet swoosh.

Feels the hairs at the back of her neck form ninety degree angles with her skin.

**-/-**

He tries to be as quiet as possible.

His injuries don't make it easy.

Even after all this time, he's technically _still_ on the mend – being yanked out of death's firm grasp will do that to a person. So he's been told. Repeatedly.

The only reason she hasn't heard him – he hasn't been at all successful in his stealth – is because she's talking to herself; she's systematically running through checks and rechecks on the various screens open in front of her.

Oh how he thought this day would never come. He feels a familiar pang in his chest at the notion.

The day where he would be standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching the familiar, petit form going about her routine – their routine – blond head of hair bobbing up and down accordingly.

When he felt the thrust of the sword into his side – piercing his skin, pushing subcutaneously, making contact with muscle and bone.

When he fell over the edge of that mountain and kept falling.

He thought of Thea and how he'd failed her – left her alone to the whims of Malcolm Merlyn – how Ra's would put two and two together. He'd come after her not only to ruin Malcom but to destroy any chance Oliver's spirit had of resting peacefully in the ground.

Because that's what the Demon Head did.

He thought of Starling and the disarray, from which it had only recently recovered. How much fight could the city have left in it?

And he thought of _her_.

The one person who made all of this a little easier – and _even harder _– who centred him and, set him straight when needed, be it in the form of long lectures or the realignment of bones.

Her perfect ponytail and her predilection for painted nails and the colour pink.

And her (well-meant) admonishing:

'Oliver, Oliver, how many times – there's a difference: bubble gum pink and coral, dusty rose and fuchsia, to name only a few. They are not the same.'

Of course they weren't – not to someone with her ability to dissect and compartmentalize.

He's lost in thoughts of Felicity and the apple-crisp scent of her hair – the sensation that her proximity brings is intoxicating – so he doesn't take care to plan his next step as carefully as he should.

At this precise moment, his shirt also chooses to roughly rub against his newly-minted wound.

**-/-**

She hears a squeak.

And a sharp intake of breath.

And then an almost groan – one that was meant to be suppressed, but escapes, barely.

Footsteps quietly draw near.

Her heart beats frantically in her throat and her stomach threatens to empty out its contents right onto her desk.

What are the chances that John will walk in 10 minutes early?

_When every other day he arrives at exactly the same time…umm…extremely UNLIKELY._

_You can take a man out of the military…_

She's not religious, not really. But she takes all of six seconds to close her eyes and send up a cry for help, ending it with a "pretty please."

And like that, once again she's focused on the intruder. Whoever this person is, they very well may be injured – the groan and the guarded footfalls give that much away – but if they've got a gun?

She's still alive, which could mean three things:

There _is _no gun

There _is _a gun and her death is imminent

There _is_ a gun, but she may be worth more alive than dead – may be used as a bargaining chip.

Option 3 isn't any more desirable than option 2.

The closest thing remotely resembling a weapon in her near vicinity is the pink ball-point pen in her hand. People _have_ done far more with even less; she'll be fine.

She listens for movement and hears somewhat laboured breathing.

_Weird_.

And then she thinks, to hell with it, momma always said, "go big or go home."

Felicity very slowly swivels her chair – and stands – to face the most likely wounded, probably dangerous, potential gun holder.

(Later, Diggle will lecture her on her negligence and haste and so will her unexpected visitor; both of them coming to the conclusion that she may need a defence 'upgrade', to which she'll only roll her eyes – when her back is turned, _of course_.)

The sight before her strikes her so much so that she clearly falters and lands right back into her seat. She's not sure how it comes to pass; it may be that she loses balance and that fact, combined with heels two inches too high raise her centre of gravity substantially – setting her up perfectly for a fall.

The man standing in front of her _looks_ just like Oliver, but, his skin is weather-beaten – sports a leather-like sheen – and his form noticeably leaner. His familiar, aristocratic cheekbones are also prominent, though more pronounced and his eyes are a sad shade of gray, the hollows under them too sunken for her liking.

She's stunned into silence, petrified in her seated upright position.

He looks like a ghost.

'That's because he _is _one, Felicity.'

'Get it together. This is not real. This is not real. This is not real. He is not real…'

Her head lowers into her hands and she digs the heel of her palms into her eyes and rubs frantically. This is a direct result of sleep deprivation – that's all.

"This _cannot_ be real."

She doesn't realize that she's no longer thinking in her head.

"Stop. Go away. Please–

–it's finally better."

And like that, the walls fall down – the months of erecting, fortifying and hard work crash and crumble around her. The will and the strength that took months to develop – that was _not_ just a façade – it shatters in the face of her first real ordeal.

_Where is everyone?_

She's in the middle of trying to figure out where her phone might be, to call John – because she knows she's going crazy – when she hears her name.

It's whispered like a secret, implored like a benediction – each syllable articulated to perfection, given its due justice.

In a voice that's hoarse and rough around the edges, but at the centre, is smoother than silk and softer than satin – in a tone that caresses like velvet and drapes her in comforting layers of velour.

"Felicity"

/fəˈ - li - sə - tē/

It's like _he_ is standing right there, calling her, speaking her name.

She doesn't move; doesn't make an attempt to look up or answer.

Maybe if she sits still enough, she'll hear it again.

Just one more time.

She had never like her name – never thought much of it.

Until she heard Oliver say it – _really _say it – for the first time.

**-/-**

The scene before him is his undoing.

Oliver watches as serenity washes over this woman that he loves. Watches the effects of one word, as it soothes her like a balm and lulls her into tranquility. He sees how she waits, hoping – anticipating – a repetition?

For all his trials and tribulations, this is the most heart-breaking. Knowing that _he_ is at the root of all this hurt and pain.

**-/-**

Oliver draws closer and crouches with much difficulty at her feet, in fear that she may be going into shock.

"Felicity. Hey, it's me. I'm here."

He takes her hand, uncurling her fingers to remove the pen, straightening them and rubbing them in his own.

"I'm right here."

It takes a minute for her to come to, recognition emerging from behind her glasses. She gives his fingers a squeeze and with much contemplation, hesitantly brings her other hand to his face, raking her fingers through his unkempt facial hair and pressing them over his eyes and along his jaw. Very slowly, she traces his lips with her index finger.

"It can't be."

Her words come out as one big exhale.

And then she stumbles upon the look in his eyes – the weight of his gaze.

It's the same look that she saw in those very same eyes months ago, when the man she loved – _loves_ – bore his deepest, truest feelings to her.

It's the emotion in those slightly less sad grey eyes that brings her back.

She searches his face, untangles her fingers so that she's now running hers hands along his arms and over his shoulders – taking count of each bicep and tricep, each deltoid and back muscle.

Under her deft fingers, he _feels _the same.

Feels like he did each time he'd come back after a mission and would patiently wait under the movement of her fingers, taking inventory of each cut, scrape and bone.

He simply sits, body and mind resigned, limbs and muscles awaiting her command, waiting for it to click.

"Oliver," she sobs breathily.

She all but launches into him and remembers mid-action that he may be hurt, but it's too late because she already has him pinned to the floor.

"Hey," he manages a soothing whisper, feeling light and almost content.

"We, we thought…you…"

She doesn't finish her sentence; too afraid that if she says the words he'll just up and disappear.

He pushes a strand of hair behind her ear so that it no longer obstructs his view.

"I know."

He presses a kiss to her forehead and then subsequently, lays a kiss first on one eyelid, and then the next. His lips burn where they touch her skin, igniting a flame in her that has been extinguished for far too long.

"It's a long story and it's not over yet," he explains in a sombre tone, foreshadowing unwelcome future happenings.

Felicity can put two and two together – she knows what he means.

_Ra's is coming._

What in reality has only been a shade over ten minutes feels like a lifetime for the two of them.

Because while they're both occupied making eyes at each other, foreheads and noses brushing every so often, John walks in – right on time – and for the briefest of moments questions first his eyesight and then, very logically, his sanity. Because he is _not _seeing Felicity hovering over a very much _alive_ Oliver, flat on his back.

None of that helps much, so he simply clears his throat.

When neither of them takes notice, John revisits the idea of his potentially compromised sanity once again.

He takes a step closer and tries to give it another – louder – shot.

He never gets the chance.

"Woah, woah, please tell me this is _not real_…

…_wait_, I mean real…and not real, like…wait, what the hell?"

(Leave it to Roy to be early, _today_, of all days).

The young man stands slightly off to the side – behind Diggle – completely dumbfounded.

'Well that caught their attention,' Diggle muses, shooting a sympathetic glance at Roy.

Because now, there are two very rumpled and very sheepish faces staring back – alternating between look at him and Roy.

"Diggle are you seeing _this_?" Roy asks, the apprehension in is voice very clear – the scepticism even

more so.

"You have no idea how glad I am to not be the only one," John responds in relief.

"Probably not as glad as Blondie is over there," Roy retorts with a smirk.

The two of them close in on their companions who are now making an attempt to get up off the floor.

Felicity lends Oliver her shoulder and helps him manoeuvre himself off the ground.

When he's standing, he inclines his head to each of them in greeting.

"John."

"Roy."

He receives a smile from John, and a solid handshake that makes its way into a hug.

"You have no idea how good it feels to have you home," the older man says heavily.

Oliver reciprocates his sentiments with a nod that carries more meaning between them than words ever

could.

It's a good thing that Diggle is standing close by because when Roy launches himself at Oliver, throwing his arms around him in a mighty hug; it just about knocks the wind out of him. He feels John's steady and supporting hand at his back.

"Please don't ever leave again. I'm coming with you if you do."

Roy's words are mumbled into Oliver's shoulder, but he hears them anyway.

"I missed you too Roy…I missed you too."

His eyes find Felicity's over Roy's head and he loses himself in her the way she's watching him, swallowing him up in her gaze.

_They_ are home.

_She_ is home.

Oliver is home.

Hope is a dangerous thing, but to hope is to be human.

And the members of team arrow are only human.

They're crime-fighting humans; saving their city, saving each other – saving themselves.

_*fin*_

Just wanted to extend a quick thank you to everyone for reading and sticking it out to the end. This was not how I pictured it originally, but I had some time and thought I'd revisit this last chapter that was long overdue. I'm not too happy with it, but I'm not one to leave something unfinished…OCD tendencies and all.

Thanks again and cheers.


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